


The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain

by monanotlisa



Category: Fringe
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Bisexuality, Character Study, Episode Tag, First Time, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, Multi, OT3, Oral Sex, Partners to Lovers, Present Tense, Prompt Fic, Relationship(s), Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Season/Series 04, Threesome - F/M/M, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fix-it for 4x16 "Nothing As It Seems". Goes AU <i>before</i> 4x17.</p><p>Basically? This is a love song to Lincoln Lee, Blueverse boy (who shouldn't be so blue).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thoughts Your Actions Entertain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kerithwyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerithwyn/gifts).



 

He doesn't want to, but he needs to. "Olivia," he says, softly. "About Lincoln."

She looks up, and there's a flash of guilt on her face that's most people wouldn't catch. He loves her for everything she is, but most of all for how she cares. Olivia exhales, says evenly, "Yes?"

"He's not doing well."

"He's doing well in Fringe Division." But he can see her heart isn't in it. Lincoln Lee is in love with her and has been for a while. Peter feels guilty, although he knows his own nudges weren't necessary. Lincoln and Olivia fit well together, everywhere. Olivia glances down at her chipped mug of coffee, the newspaper spread out in an oddly un-Dunhamish chaos across the breakfast table in front of her. "Okay, so. Lincoln has feelings for me. What are we going to do about it?"

"I don't know, but we need to do something." Peter thinks about Lincoln, his expressive face and unwavering loyalty. He _is_ a good guy, but that's not all there is because Peter thinks about him in that tank-top too. It's Peter's turn to level his breathing.

Olivia glances at him, and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth is half-serious, half-sweet. "Yeah, I know. We will."

::

"So the plan is to dose Agent Dunham with cortexiphan?" Broyles's voice is low, as ever when he asks the important questions, but Lincoln thinks he could probably be heard at the other edge of the bullpen. Not that it needs to; the three of them are standing in an almost perfect half-circle around his desk: Olivia and Peter and him. 'Almost', because Olivia and Peter always stand a little closer to each other than strictly required these days. And 'perfect' is for these two and these two alone, clearly.

Olivia lifts her hands in _What Can I Say, Sir?_ apology. "Afraid so."

Broyles doesn't sigh, but it's clearly a close thing. "Then I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate."

Peter does. "Walter and I had a breakthrough with the data on the second memory disc -- the one from the shapeshifter killed in the quarry, who was wearing the form of Nadine Park."

"I recall that memory disc was compromised?"

"It was." Peter looks at Broyles, and Lincoln is struck by how different the man seems: still confident, but that's shifted to the inside. Peter's found his inner balance (Peter has found Olivia). Still he appears to realise his overall situation is still a little precarious in a universe that isn't his home. Although, come to think of it, it's no longer Olivia's either. She's so...radiant, but Lincoln wonders whether she has considered every angle, or if Peter has. "The disc was damaged, though, when I shot her clean through the side and in turn hampered the self-destruct mechanism. So while a lot of data was lost, a little remained."

 _Lucky shot._ Although not so much for the shapeshifter, Lincoln thinks wryly and picks up the thread. "From the fragments of information retrieved, we gathered it's the same shapeshifter that we met in the industrial area at Avon Station: the one Olivia injured, not the other one." He feels his voice waver for a moment because talking about it makes him recall the scene -- makes him recall the monster wearing Robert's face. No one but him does...except that when he glances at her, Olivia is looking straight at him, a frown of concentration on her face until that fades like clouds in front of the sun and she gives him a sad sideways-smile full of comfort. He swallows. "It seems there was more to the make-shift lab than we realised."

"The one where he tried to manufacture the temporary cure, where Agent Dunham -- our Agent Dunham -- surprised him." Broyles is definitely interested. "Continue, Agent Lee."

"Of course." Lincoln checks with Peter, gets a tiny nod from him. "From the stored data and per Dr. Bishop's assessment, the properties of the initial masking agent of their genetic instability, that temporary cure, as you call it, depended on the precise set-up of the instruments. If we can replicate it, we may be able to reverse-engineer a substance that will safely reveal these creatures."

Broyles doesn't ask about why they continued their old experiments in a different venue. It's answered pretty clearly by the regular notification mails from the Fringe Science Division about their lack of progress on adapting Walternate's weapon, and of course the initial report Peter wrote about how it worked on the man posing as the other universe's Brandon Fayette. What use is anything that reveals and kills in the same instance? He thinks of that common notion about witch ordeals.

Broyles does ask the pertinent question. "How does the cortexiphan for Agent Dunham come in?" His long fingers spread out over the surface of his desk as if he wanted to hold onto something more tangible than this nexus of technology and transmuted alchemy Lincoln still can't believe is his life.

Olivia inhales. "Walter thinks that, although I don't do so now, I will then be able to recall the Avon Station laboratory -- everything in it." They've poured over the files, all of them, each of them; no one but Walter understands cortexiphan and its effects on the mind and everything it stores, except of course William Bell, long deceased in all the universes they know by now. "While it was coursing through my system, I was able to manage two sets of memories. When...the Other Nina stopped dosing me, my memories were being gradually replaced."

"This could be a coincidence, of course," Lincoln adds, tampers down all the misgivings he's already voiced. "We haven't pin-pointed the mechanics of that bleed-through, except that it's not Peter per se."

Peter nods. "Correlation, not causation." His rocks forward on his heels, and when Olivia turns toward him, his eyes are dark, hooded. He's worried for her.

Olivia's eyes soften, but stance remains firm. "It's my decision, though. And yours, ultimately." She gives Broyles a tight-yet-bright smile. "We are aware of the dangers but feel it's our best option."

"I will admit the thought of a shapeshifter in our midst is not exactly putting me at ease." Broyles nods. "I assume the manufacture of more cortexiphan is possible?"

"Yes, it is." Olivia nods; Peter smiles. Even Lincoln, who doesn't exactly feel too cheerful lately, relaxes a fraction. The vials from Massive Dynamic were gone forever, of course. But buoyed by the thought of a Peter Bishop belonging here now, to him, Walter managed to reconstruct the formula for cortexiphan from his mind with only Astrid, a whiteboard, and an array of drugs they could probably make millions with if marketed, especially to harrowed Harvard students come exam-time.

"Keep me abreast," Broyles tells them, and Olivia promises.

::

 

In the lab, Walter is already waving a syringe with more enthusiasm than care, and Astrid is wisely stepping back and, just as appropriately, rolling her eyes. " _Walter_."

"Right, right. I'd say your memories don't need retrieving, my dear." He smiles indulgently at Astrid, teasing a mirror expression out of her, before pivoting until he faces the three of them making their way down the steps. "Come here, Olivia!"

She does, and wonders only for a fleeting moment if she would not if Broyles had given any other answer, any other command than the free pass they all received just now. But there's the chance of having what she's lost and wants to regain: memories of her mothers in this timeline, both biological and adoptive. Ella and the nephew she now doesn't even know about. Forks in the road. She's still choosing the path less travelled by.

Also, migraines and nausea.

As if he were the one with telepathic abilities, Walter squints at her and says, "By the way, I've added some sumatriptan to be automatically activated in case of an attack so you should not experience any crippling headaches again this time." He raises an expectant eyebrow, so Olivia purses her lips and thanks him, with feeling.

Astrid welcomes her, leading her to the doctor's chair, hands gentle and eyes more so. Her expression is as easy to read as those of Peter and Lincoln. "Are you sure, Olivia?" The back of Astrid's hand brushes hers. She misses her friend, Olivia realises; Astrid misses the fellow field agent who would lean in to share a smile and a joke across a lab table: across no space at all. But unlike the cases worked with Lincoln, there are no matter-of-fact file folders detailing the private moments between her and Astrid; there is nothing Olivia can read up on and learn by heart like a poem crammed in a Jacksonville classroom with pale-blue walls in fourth grade.

"I'm sure," she says, louder than she thought she would, looks over to Peter and Lincoln. When Astrid's hand squeezes hers, she presses back.

The injection itself is...actually anti-climatic.

"How do you feel?" Peter asks her over dinner, and it takes Olivia a moment to take note because she doesn't really feel any different. But he's looking at her, and the recent softness of his face is gradually replaced by the sharpened features she remembers from the man thrown head-first into this brave new world. It's not her perception, though. It's him. Peter is scared of losing her again. The thought makes her heart ache and her arm reach out. She curls her fingers around his next to the plate of penne _all'arrabbiata_.

"I'm fine." At his expression, she laughs. "Peter, I'm not bending the truth here. No headache. And I'm not forgetting you again."

"What makes you so certain of that?" Oh yes, there's an edge to his words, one not aimed at her but the universe at large, so intent on pulling the rug from under Peter Bishop at regular intervals.

"I've dreamed about you ever since the Bridge was formed. I'm pretty sure I pulled you back into existence. All before the first shot of cortexiphan, so you and I, we're real." Little else in this world is, although the comfort of these so-similar versions of her chosen family ground her in ways she probably can't even fathom, from Astrid over Walter to a Lincoln who has throughout this transformation felt so familiar to her, closer than any FBI partnership warrants. She puts down her fork, stands up without letting go of his hand so he has to as well. "Are you done?"

Peter doesn't even look down at the rest of his noodles. "With the food, yeah." The hunger in his eyes is of a different kind.

Something down in her belly blooms hot, spirals lower still. "Good."

And upstairs, in his bedroom, they are just that.

::

The click of the handcuffs is loud, echoed by steel beams and half-open spaces. His own breathing sounds harsh to Lincoln's ears as he hovers over the perp, one of his knees lodged firmly if inappropriately in the guys' kidneys, the other one balancing his weight on the concrete floor. In spite of the extreme traction of the cuffs pulling up his shoulders, he doesn't scream, doesn't make any sound at all. Damn, Lincoln really has to add wrestling to his training roster if they keep this up. Flying porcupines and the evil scientists who love them are one thing; one-hundred-years-old, liver-eating mutants with a fetishistic focus are another one entirely.

"Hey," Olivia says, and it's oddly gratifying to hear she too is slightly out of breath, "thanks for getting him."

"No problem," Lincoln says, wrenches the -- guy? creature? up, up and away until he's lost in a sea of blue and yellow jackets. Once out of the throng of agents, he glances at Olivia, who has fallen neatly into step with him. "Did you see the...shrine? The creepy altar?"

"Of mementos of his victims, including the black wool cap I thought I'd lost? Yep." She gives him a smile that's even warmer than the ones he's been getting (and that have slowly been driving him crazy). "I'd been hoping _you_ hadn't seen it all. Yet another item on the list."

Lincoln has to force himself not to react. "The list."

"Of things that make it hard for you --"

"-- to sleep, yes. Olivia." He stops abruptly, looks back to check there's no one else around. They've almost reached the eastern staircase, its heavy door. Lincoln's left hand slips on the handle; he balls it into a light fist before he speaks again. "That's from our conversation, conversations-plural. What exactly do you remember?"

Olivia looks down, away from his searching gaze, but it's not that; it's not only that. He can see the blush on her cheeks even in this dimly lit industrial basement. "Everything."

Lincoln suddenly knows why feathers were once upon a time chosen to signify hope: because he feels their soft flutter in his his chest.

::

"Okay, what did he do then?" Peter shifts away from the lab table he's been leaning against and lets his voice drop so Astrid can't hear; at least Walter is already engrossed in setting up beakers and distillers, bunsen burners and petri dishes precisely as Olivia told him to. Peter's mouth is dry, and he isn't sure about the feeling in his stomach either. But it's hard to tell anxiety from breathless anticipation: the rush of adrenaline to the system is exactly the same.

It all just depends how you handle it.

Olivia runs a hand through her hair and gives him a half-shrug that he'll never find anything but adorable. "Lincoln said that was great, very quietly. That we could gather the data now, re-engineer what he calls 'the shapeshifter potion'." She bites her lip, looks directly at him. "Peter, I wanted to touch him so badly. Just -- reach out and reassure him."

"Yeah." Peter doesn't ask her _of what_ ; it's clear as a North Pole summer's day. He hasn't yet seen the two of them together, because Lincoln took off on a mission that, as Olivia relayed with an expression of serious doubt, had to do with utterly essential paperwork. To be fair, it probably is work-related; Lincoln is nothing if not a dilligent agent keen on sharing essential information as soon as possible. But Peter remembers very well the interaction between them just weeks ago, when he thought Olivia-and-Lincoln were a great match, half in love -- more like three-thirds there.

He still thinks so, leagues below the rolling churn of _mine, mine, mine_. There's something else he has to dive for, but not deep at all. "I get it -- well, parts of it. Not just the ones relating to you."

Olivia almost-smiles and scrunches up her nose. "Relating to Lincoln, you mean." At his stare, she half-laughs. "Your expression when you first brought this up. It's the face you make when you're undecided about sharing something you've done, or felt." The shadow that passes over her face is brief and has nothing to do with this time-line at all.

Peter also lets it go, nods slowly. "Lincoln and I just don't feel like purely platonic pals, and haven't ever since we met. That's actually something you can't remember, because William fucking Bell had hijacked your body."

She tilts her head, and no, that's not a happy memory. "Dana Gray and the electromagnetic cohesion of her physical self. Lincoln came from Hartford to join you on that case; his report emphasised how you'd pooled your resources perfectly, and that future cooperation would be very welcome."

 _And how_. Peter has to grin. "'Cooperation' is only the G-rated term for it. I was pre-occupied with getting you back, Olivia. But he was as hot as he's here, in his nerdy, please-rip-my-starched-shirt-off way. In a whole different world -- one without you -- I would've given it a shot." Even with his mind fully on Olivia and not responding to that particular aspect of Lincoln's interest, Peter recalls idly contemplating the fastest way to take this guy's glasses off, not to mention everything else.

"Lincoln and you." Olivia looks at him, and there's no shock or amusement in her eyes. It's a different expression altogether. She smiles, but not at him; it's soft and unfocused. "I'd wondered what you'd been up to before we met."

"Hey, don't knock it till you tried it." He feels himself frown curiously at her. "You haven't --"

"No." Olivia's mouth quirks, and she steps closer. Her fingertips graze the lapels of his coat, slide upward until they come to rest on his shoulders, lightly but if ever an anchor there was. "But I can see it. And as for Lincoln --" she catches his gaze, "he had this partner, Robert."

"Yeah, he told me. Married guy, partners for five years. You mean --"

"He loved him. Like I loved John. And from what he told me and indirectly showed me, he was really close to Robert's wife as well, Julie." That one's obvious enough, because in the short time-span they've had this timeline's Lincoln join them, Peter has counted that Lincoln has visited Julie frequently in spite of Hartford being a good two-hour drive away.

"Really _really_ close, you're saying? To both of them?"

"Yep." Her smile is bright, and if this weren't Olivia he was talking to, he'd think it was a little scared as well. "Peter, what are we considering to do here?"

Peter swallows. "The right thing." He knows it is the moment he says it.

::

Walking down the white-walled corridor to the elevator, Olivia shoves her hands into her coat pockets. She still feels them shaking, but this way at least no one can see. Meeting Nina again has actually let the tremors subside just a little: Nina's face, almost as familiar as her own again (if not from early mornings and late-late nights then a tv screen or the bright-blue _Dynamic_ videochat window on the monitor). Nina's eyes gradually softening with a forgiveness that had made Olivia's own water. Olivia doesn't cry -- usually she doesn't.

Olivia blinks twice, enters the code, and presses the button. When the lift doors whoosh open to the proper floor where Walter is hopefully not being too improper, Lincoln greets her. "I was just about to -- well, not come and get you." He smiles at her helplessly yet happens to be all the partnerly help she ever wanted. "I figured you and Nina needed some space."

Space, and time -- the latter will heal them both, she thinks. If she can keep this up. This last hour made worthwhile what she's been wondering about ever since the memories started coming back. It's true she doesn't have any migraines or physical side-effects this time around, as she's been telling Peter and Lincoln thrice-daily. But what she hasn't been telling them in great detail is the twin-set of memories rendering her mind such unsteady ground with trip-wires everywhere.

_Olivia did have tears in her eyes that she didn't even wipe away two years ago and didn't need to because Rachel was grinning from ear to ear and doing it for her, using a checkered kitchen towel because that's where Olivia held Eddie in her arms for the first time; Olivia on that same day off rode a rollercoaster with Ella, and what she remembers is not her own utter terror at the dip of the wagon going down but Ella's high-pitched, joyful shriek and her small, warm hand in Olivia's. She rode Bloom to rousing, applause-filled victory, her first one, in nineteen-ninety-two; that same summer she added only the last in a long number of track-and-field medals to the collection hidden, on nails hammered perfectly straight, in the back of her wardrobe: where no one could smash it or, worse, take it away. She'd taken her stepfather's Golden Boy .22 out of the unlocked case (not that it would have mattered) and a shot that hit the mark; the very same shot had only served to make his anger burn less hot but much more steadily._

"Olivia," and then there's Lincoln's hand at her elbow, not hesitant at all. "Please don't give me another _I'm fine_ , okay?" His eyes are wide and earnest, their blues and greys shaded with worry. "Because you and I know that I know you're not." He frowns. "That was unnecessarily complicated, wasn't it?"

She huffs out what she hopes is closer to a laugh than a sob, and the world swims into focus again. "A little." She lets herself lean in into his touch, turns toward him. Lincoln's strong underneath his prim suits. Up close, she can see the fine lines around Lincoln's eyes, how the the gentle curve of his mouth has developed more of an edge over the last few months. She wants to kiss it, feel it soften under her lips. Because her life really needs more complications such as this one. "Lincoln."

"Yep," he says, and she can _feel_ the word; they're standing so close as to be breathing the same air. She knows there are people around, and a Massive Dynamic hallway really isn't the fitting place for this topic, but she doesn't want to pull away -- doesn't want to do anything at all to change the way Lincoln Lee looks at her right now. "When we're done here and Walter and Peter have instructed the team regarding the injection gun design, let's talk, you and me. About everything." She looks away from his mouth that's shifting into a tiny smile, up into his eyes, bright and keen. "Everything including the three of us."

Lincoln's lashes are impossibly long and dark, really. "I...I'd like that."

::

He's seen her hands tremble, the way Olivia's jaw clenched: not all the time but in flashes, especially when no one is talking to her. When she or her mind go wandering off. Lincoln can't even reconcile the one reality he lives in any more, and Olivia has to juggle two time-lines in her head, each a multi-verse in turn. He's been asking, sure, but Olivia is not exactly the answering type. It's not even him, he's pretty sure. Peter has been looking frustrated as well these last few days before their New York trip. Lincoln's _Is she okay?_ was met with an uncharacteristically terse Peter response, _Does she look to you like she's okay?_. Which was bad in and by itself but a relief to Lincoln's selfish side, just like Peter's sigh and follow-up: _Olivia isn't big on sharing her burden, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. And it's not like there's a lot of precedent here: We need to keep an open mind._ The look and the light but lingering grip on his biceps from Peter made Lincoln nod and fight down the tingle of heat down his spine. Mute, though, because he didn't know how to breach that this wasn't just about Olivia's memories. It was also about what they'd brought back with them.

He stares at the slightly worse-for-wear door of Peter and Olivia's Hotel Pennsylvania room. Of course they are lodging in #42. Of course. He checks his watch; it's not yet 9pm, and he doesn't want to be early. Lincoln's punctuality has made Peter smile ever since they met, a flash of mirth from someone Lincoln thinks made it a point not to be too predictable. But Lincoln doesn't mind being just that; it's probably a factor in Olivia's invitation earlier this day. The back of Lincoln's neck prickles. They're all adults and agents, respectively former rogues, too; he's pretty sure the famed Dunham & Bishop duo has deduced his prior relationship with Robert and Julie. But what went so well until death did part them had always felt unique, once-in-a-lifetime.

Then again, none of these words hold much truth any more in what are, after all, ever-shifting universes. That you can travel forward and backward and bend to your will sometimes. He should probably try some of that just about now.

Lincoln tries to calm himself down, calm his body down, because this could all be a huge misunderstanding, and walking in with the beginnings of a hard-on would just add extra sprinkles to the problem sundae. He knocks on the door, firmly.

Olivia opens it, and God, she's breathtaking, back-lit. Her hair is loose and in slight disarray as if she's just taken out the ribbon holding it back so sternly; single strands are falling into her face. The colour high on her cheeks definitely doesn't stem from a make-up box. "Come in."

Into the fray, which of course is just an ordinary, vaguely old-fashioned hotel room. But it holds the infinite attraction of a nervous, smiling Olivia, plus Peter lounging in a chair and stretching out his long-long legs as if he were perfectly relaxed. Which he isn't. Lincoln knows him even less well than he knows Olivia, but Lincoln's not become an FBI analyst because of his pretty face. "Hi," he breathes, then can't help but give a little laugh at the expressions on both their faces. "Wow, this is awkward."

Peter's face eases into a grin, "And to think that's only just the beginning. Of a some prolonged awkwardness." He catches Lincoln's gaze. "If that's what you want."

"Yes." The word is out before Lincoln can even _think_ , let alone carefully consider his next move. Dimly, he wonders if they should even discuss Olivia's mind and the mess it must be right now, but she seems very much in this moment (and no other).

Olivia looks pleased and surprised when she looks from Peter to him. "Right, the two of you already have an understanding; that's great." There's humour in her voice, tentative, but it's there. "I don't really know how to say it, Lincoln."

Lincoln smiles at her, and it's easy now because when she looks at him, longing and -- a lot more in her eyes, he knows hasn't misread anything at all. "I thought you two would have a cleverly devised plan." He looks around the room. "Or at least champagne."

He would never have bet on it, but Olivia _giggles_ , glancing down. "Peter actually proposed we get some -- three bottles, he said. One eyebrow raised. He thinks that's cute."

"Well it is; he is," Lincoln says before he can second-guess himself, and he loves the low chuckle from Peter in response.

"Told you so, 'livia." There's more than one meaning in this, and Lincoln may have to reconsider his behavioural patterns, because even though Peter is bound to be great at pin-pointing people's true motivations, it's still a little disconcerting that Lincoln's reaction to him him was that obvious. "But you should tell him _something_."

Olivia snorts, softly, and Lincoln grimaces. "Um, that sounds suspiciously like, _throw the poor boy a bone_."

"The things I could say...and all of them are double entendres." Peter's smirk is devilish, delighted. Most of all it's real.

"Lincoln," Olivia says and takes a deep breath before coming up to him. Lincoln thinks he should probably looks at something else but her mouth. But it's too much of a challenge right now. "I'm not particularly good with emotions -- putting emotions into words. But." Her smile is so...intimate when she takes his hand, laces his fingers with his. Olivia tugs and Lincoln steps up, steps so close that their bodies are touching and the world shrinks to envelop only this hotel room. With her other hand she gently takes his glasses off, then touches her fingertips to his cheek...to steady him or her or maybe both, and okay, yes, this is really happening; she's really going --

Olivia's lips are on his, sweet but insistent, and Lincoln opens his mouth. He can't help the shiver and reaches out, blindly, sliding his hands into the small of her back to pull her to him a little harder than intended. Olivia melts into his embrace, kisses him hungrily, as if she's thought about it a dozen, a hundred times, just like him. Her hand slides around his neck, curls around its back to stroke his hair, holds him tight. _Possessive_. He likes it; he loves how she feels in his arms and how she tastes and oh, he wants more, right now, right here. He wants it all.

When Olivia and he come up for air again, their breathing is definitely not the only thing that's hard. Lincoln doesn't want to let go of her. He mirrors Olivia, though, when she looks back at the armchair and Peter in it. Peter's mouth is half-open, and his eyes are a little glassy. "Okay, you two are just -- there's probably a New York State law against people being this gorgeous."

Olivia laughs, and the roughness of her voice coupled with how _joyful_ she sounds sends another spiral of lust through Lincoln. "What do you think, Peter?"

"Actually," Peter says, his thumb playing with the button of his slacks; there's lot going on below, which makes Lincoln stare before he looks up at Peter's face again, "I'm pretty sure my brain has checked out for the night. Lincoln, I can sit back, if you like."

"This time," Olivia says softly, looking back at Lincoln, her eyes a starburst of green and amber. "I mean, you don't have to -- we both like you. But we haven't done this before," at his millisecond glance over to the chair, the hint of a smile appears on her lips, "no, not even Peter. So we're open to suggestions."

"I guess what we're trying to ask, Lincoln, is -- what do _you_ want?" Peter runs his fingers through his stubble; the soft bristling sound can be heard even these few feet away.

"Oh, um." Lincoln lets his hands slide up again until they are resting lightly on Olivia's hip. He looks at her, then at Peter. "No pressure. I, um, like you too." He wonders how to tell them all of it: that he's in love with Olivia; that he likes Peter and wants to fuck him and wouldn't mind it the other way around either. Olivia's smile at him is a little lost, but it's luminous, and he smiles back at her. "Can I tell you I'm finally a little freaked out here?"

She does what he'd hoped for, and breaks out into a grin. "Lincoln, yes." She laughs, quietly, touches her forehead to his collarbone before exhaling and resting her cheek against his chest. "Me too. Peter too."

"Welcome to the club." Peter's voice is gentle, thoughtful for someone so clearly one inch from shoving his hand down his pants. "I'm not an expert on what people consider normal in the first place -- in fact, I'm pretty sure I don't even remember the concept by now." Peter purses his lips in an expression that reminds Lincoln of no one as much as Olivia. "Olivia's had half a football team living inside her head by now, and let's not even get started on the ever-exciting adventure of keeping two time-lines straight."

"There's nothing straight about this any more." Olivia dead-pans, lifts her head to look at Lincoln. "I think we just have to accept the world as it is, with a twist. And adapt."

"Sometimes you just have to do things differently," Lincoln says slowly, frowns. "Find a new solution together with the ones you love and who love you." It still hurts; he has to look away. It's also a little soon.

Olivia draws back her hand, but he catches it in his, blinks at her. "It's okay."

"Robert." It's not a question. "He and Julie and you --"

"Yeah." Lincoln knows he's making one of his weird faces but there's no helping it. "After I'd found Robert and her, you see, I thought I was the luckiest guy on earth -- and then he died, and Julie couldn't be with me without him, and I couldn't be with her without him; she and the kids are moving back with her parents in Upstate New York; there's a new head of orthopaedics position opening for her in a university hospital. For me, everything was gone. To feel I can maybe, just maybe," he swallows because yeah, _way too early_ , but what the hell, "have a relationship with people I care for again is...it's pretty overwhelming."

He hears a muttered, _Okay, that's it; Jesus, Lincoln_ , and then Peter is out of the chair and right there, folding them into his arms, Lincoln and Olivia both, and Lincoln shudders and leans into Peter's embrace, breathing him in. Lincoln squeezes his eyes shut and listens to their breathing, three sets of lungs. He doesn't know long it takes for them to even out, in sync, but they slowly do, and only then does Lincoln open his eyes again.

::

"Um, okay." Lincoln blinks at them from under his lashes when they move apart just a little. "That killed the mood pretty effectively."

Peter thinks that is true but beside the point. He catches Olivia's eyes but didn't have to; she's already giving Lincoln a little shrug-smile. "Lincoln, no; I mean --" she breathes, and a more determined expression appears on her face, "we don't have to do anything right now this very moment. We could just...sit. Even talk. Or wait until we're back home."

Taking in Lincoln's doubtful face, Peter adds, "It's like you said, Lincoln -- this is about a relationship." He ponders it for a millisecond, then says what he thinks. "Not that I would mind the sex that comes with it."

The corners of Lincoln's mouth twitch upward. "I hear you." His face goes serious again, each of his words clearly enunciated, "You asked me what I want. I don't want to go back to my empty hotel room. I want to be with you, both. But I'd like to...I'd love to be with Olivia tonight. If you want to, Olivia."

"Yes," she says, warmth in her voice, and almost hesitantly touches the fabric where Lincoln's dress shirt falls open by the collar between thumb and forefinger. "Lincoln, I'd love to."

The expression on his face is indescribable even to Peter, who considers himself fairly verbose. Lincoln glances at him, not a push but a _please_ , and Peter nods, steps back. It's surprisingly hard: not so much Lincoln and Olivia together but _Lincoln and Olivia together without him_. But he gets the guy. He's been waiting for, dreaming of this for a while. And Olivia in this time-line who's also here, who's also _her_ , has been falling for Lincoln ever since they met.

He remembers his own elation -- actually, he has to completely disregard the first time with Olivia. But the second first-time was the charm, and the third first-time of sorts was too, whatever proverbs say about these things. Peter is no fan of numerology. Sinking back into the armchair, he watches them kiss.

Lincoln stands with his legs spaced widely so Olivia fits neatly in-between them, on the same level as Lincoln when she stretches just a little. Which she does, tugging at his buttons now, impatient as ever, and he can't understand her muttered words into Lincoln's ear, but he completely gets Lincoln's answering laugh. Lincoln reaches down, and the rustle of Olivia's pants hitting the floor shouldn't be so loud in his ears. Louder even than the thundering rush of blood in his ears.

Naked, they're works of art, paintings or drawings or statues intertwined in a park. Peter knows Olivia, knows a hundred secrets about her body and the powerful brain that drives it, half of them gathered when they weren't even sleeping with each other yet. The deep gashes from the mutant attack are still angry-red scars curling down the back of Lincoln's shoulders but only serve to underline the perfection of his body: the strong line of his shoulders, chest and stomach muscles that are a sin to hide under stiff suits. Peter thinks, _I want to learn yours too_.

On their slow shuffle to the bed, Olivia almost trips over Lincolns belt, the metal part catching on her little toe so she bends down to remove it. "Hey," Lincoln breathes, "we should save some things for later, maybe?" making Olivia huff out a laugh of her own and pull Lincoln in for another open-mouthed kiss. She's flushed already, eyes bright and nipples erect and oh, okay, Lincoln has noticed too, hand closing around first one and then the other of Olivia's breasts. His thumbs are running soft circles across the areolae. "You're so beautiful," he whispers, "but it's not that; you're strong too. You amaze me every day." Olivia shivers, whether at Lincoln's words or his caresses Peter can't tell, but she isn't idle, manages to shove them both onto the king-size bed. Lincoln laughs into her mouth, nips at her collarbone. "Okay," he breathes, "I got it. I got you." Olivia runs her fingers through his hair, eyes half-closed in pleasure when he moves down her body, tongue and fingers on her nipples where, Peter shifts to see it better, Lincoln uses just a hint of teeth, enough to make her moan, moan his name and _please, okay_.

Lincolns smile could light up a room, Peter thinks. Lincoln moves further down between Olivia's leg and nips at her bellybutton, getting a gasp in return, and then slides his hands and his head down, down to where Peter knows she's hot and wet by now -- he loves how slick Olivia gets, drenching his fingers and tongue, and from Lincolns little groan he does too. "God, Olivia," Lincoln whispers, and she stutters out a laugh. "Not quite," she breathes, and Peter grins because she sounds almost like him, and also, fuck it, there's no manual for this, and if so, Peter would disregard half the chapters anyway. The buttons on his jeans pop open, and -- yeah, thats better. He licks his palm once, twice, strokes his cock firmly but slowly so he has some relief but doesn't miss a thing.

Olivia's moans are still soft but more frequent now. Her eyes have fluttered closed, and she's tossing her head to the side, but she still, barely manages to utter words -- _yes, there_ and _lower_ and _deeper, oh, Lincoln_. Peter can't see what exactly Lincoln is doing, but since Olivia is biting her lips and tugging helplessly at Lincoln's hair, he must be doing something right. He gasps too, in-between, and their combined sounds alone are making Peter lose his fucking mind. He tightens his fingers at the base of his cock, presses; he doesn't want this to be over just yet, but then Olivia shudders over there on the bed, lets out the low whine he knows so well, and Peter speeds up his hand and shivers into bright-bursting sensation, squeezing his eyes shut.

When his eyesight returns enough to look at them again, Lincoln is slowly crawling up Olivia's body, smile somewhere between shy and pretty damn triumphant. There's a light sheen of sweat on his skin, a few drops collecting in the small of his back. Lincoln's still hard, cock curving lightly toward his stomach, glistening at the tip. Peter's mouth is suddenly dry. Olivia props herself up on her elbows, glances at Peter with a lazy smile -- he waves back with a slightly sticky hand, seeing the spark of amusement in her eyes -- and then leans into Lincoln's kiss. "Hey," she says and, "your turn to lie down?" Lincoln nods and sinks down into the sheets, trailing one hand along her hip, her side, but too lightly: making her squeak just for a second. _Ticklish_ , Peter thinks; Olivia will make him learn this too. Lincoln lifts his hand in surprise, letting out what sounds suspiciously like a giggle. It subsides fast when Olivia swings one leg over his hips and, letting out a breathy sigh, slides down on Lincoln's cock.

She starts to move and now, now the grip of Lincoln's hands on her hips, her waist and breasts is firm. Olivia blinks, presses into his touch, inhaling and exhaling fast and faster, rhythmically. "Lincoln," she says, leaning forward, her hair falling over them both, reaching down between her legs, and then Lincoln is lifting himself up, heels digging into the mattress so he can counter each downward movement with a thrust, until he groans her name, loud and deep and pulls Olivia down, hard. She gasps, half-shifting, half-falling down, stealing -- no, it's not stealing when it's so freely given. They kiss, slower now. Sated.

"Peter," Olivia says, sleepily. "What are you still doing there?"

Lincoln's still on his back, still catching his breath, and obviously -- except for Olivia covering him -- still naked. It's a good look on him. "Yeah," he says, blinking at Peter, and the expression on his face is perfectly sweet. "Join us?"

Well, duh. Peter is feeling too pleasantly sluggish to comment, but he does, gladly.

 

 

In sleep, all the worry on Lincoln's face is wiped away. Peter lifts himself up just a little. Lincoln looks gorgeous, and also -- unrelated to this notion of Peter's -- a lot more like his purposefully cheery counterpart (who's hiding quite a lot underneath the handsome hero mask, but at least he does it reasonably well).

An intake of breath, and then Lincoln's eyelids flutter, and he blinks blearily at Peter. "Oh. Um. Good morning?"

"That it is," Peter agrees, because it's due to be a rainy day in New York, but for some reason, the morning is clear, and the light streaming in through the windows is filtered through orange curtains, throws warm patterns of swirls and spirals over their bed. Lincoln turns carefully to look over his shoulder at Olivia, still snoring lightly, and the expression on his face turns dreamy before shifting into something else when he looks back at Peter.

Peter gentles his smile. "If you are a little freaked out at our arrangement, or just at me in your bed --"

"No, no." Lincoln's eyes widen, and he shakes his head. "That part -- you and Olivia and me is fine. It's finer than fine, in fact. Peter, I _slept_. Through the whole night."

He remembers Olivia telling him now, and the tension in his chest dissipates. "We're a cure for insomnia." Peter smirks at Lincoln. "Exclusive offer, though: for you only."

"I know." Lincoln lets out a breath he must have been holding. "This feels good. Peter --"

"Yeah?"

"Come here." Lincoln props himself up one arm, still slow as not to wake Olivia. His eyes are bright, blue, and there's a dare in his eyes that Peter finds oddly cute.

Peter shuffles forward, still lying on his side, until there's little space between their bodies. Lincoln reaches out to touch his shoulder and pull Peter in. Lincoln kisses like he loves it, gentle but with intent, oddly playful for someone so neat and buttoned-down. Well, not right now, of course. And he wasn't inhibited yesterday night either. Quite to the contrary.

They have to work on communication, because Peter tends to keep secrets (although he's gotten better at sharing them) and Olivia tends to keep in everything (although she too is working on it). But he thinks this man who against the odds managed to make his way to their doors three times now (of a Harvard lab in two timelines and this one now) isn't likely to give up easily. They all will figure it out as they go along. They always do.

Peter closes his eyes and kisses Lincoln back, tasting Olivia on his tongue, and a world of promise.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Beta thanks to Elfin, whose threesome fics I'll never match. I just hope it's fun to watch me try.
> 
> 2\. Title for once not from a The Knife song but College Feat. Electric Youth - A Real Hero.
> 
> 3\. The prompt was as follows: _Peter/Olivia/Lincoln, post-A Short Story About Love: Peter and Olivia get their (fairy tale, spinning-slowly-in-an-embrace) happy ending. Now it's Lincoln's turn! Initially sort of awkward, functional threesome. Porn or otherwise -- I just want to see Lincoln made happy by people who care about him!_


End file.
